


Apple Affair (English Version)

by Sonambulo



Category: One Piece
Genre: Bottom Gin, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Top Sanji, Unrequited Love, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:09:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22313044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonambulo/pseuds/Sonambulo
Summary: Gin didn't expect to see Sanji after the 2 years.
Relationships: Sanji / Gin
Kudos: 21





	Apple Affair (English Version)

**Author's Note:**

> It's the first time for me to post sth on ao3. I apologize for grammar mistakes since my mother tongue is not English. Also apologize that there are lots of metaphors which might be very obscure.  
> Please do not hesitate to comment me once there is something you cannot understand in this article.

After leaving Baratie, your hunger grew. It was extraordinary, since you never went hungry at sea again. The restlessness of your pain lasted as the bruises and fractures continued to increase, and seemed to be forgotten while the voyage moves on. Seafood Fried Rice is too delicious, especially that made from Mr. Sanji. That's the only reason, you tell yourself.

You didn't expect to see Sanji after the two years. Sanji was looking at an apple at one of the stalls. He didn't notice you, picked the apple up and placed it in his palm. Then he turns around and you think it's not because you called his name. He's wearing sunglasses, a simple poor disguise, with rose gold lenses reflecting your unease face. 

"What are you drinking?" He pulled back the round seat of the Bar, sunglasses hanging loosely from his neckline. He gave up the apple, and with a flick of his finger, your senses drew your soul to him, wrapped obediently around his fingertips like some kind of vine, some kind of destiny. You lick the salt rim from the glass, the bitter gravel melts into salty sea water, and words you want to say are still wandering on your tongue.

His hand rests on your shoulder, and his forearm exerts a slight force that unquestionably guides you. Did you say you wanted to repay him? Did you tell him how much you wanted and feared to see him again? You are not approaching a crummy old inn, you are stepping into your future, your humble approach to repay. It will always be a flower of shame sprout in your memory, a deformed pearl stuck deep in your chest. His tentative breath blows on your cheeks, your ears burn, unexpecting you'd be this intimate. And he guides you, with a few intentional flirtations, unassailably as eternal compass.

He come in the room and hold you down on the bed, and you'd have a second to be glad it was dry and soft. The young man lean over like a dark cloud, an obsidian cave that block out your light and replace it. For a moment you had the pleasure of being his prey.

Lick me wet. The blond man sternly admonished, thrusting his fingers into your mouth, leaving with your tongue teased and salivary glands pressed. Your liquid has the same taste of King Ground cigarette. You are the apple in his hand, every scar on your body he touches tenderly. He washes away the dust of voyage, peels off the wax of disguise; his nails are shimmering blades, cutting off the deadly dignity and coarseness from your skin. Then he began to enjoy his meal: He gently bites your softened body, drinks your juice as if it was the most enthralling morning dew, and his finger pulps get dry after wet, leaving a sweet sticky trace on your abdomen. You are his ingredients, his carefully-prepared seafood fried rice: cheese sauce soaked in white rice, squid barbel curled up contentedly. 

Use me. EAT ME. You heard yourself saying, but you didn't. 

The pale man didn't take off any clothes. The belt hung precariously on his waist, the suit pants unzipped, and the erection swaggered out of his underwear. It's been washed by your saliva, wrapped around by your fingers; even so, you have no idea what arouses his appetite, to have his cutlery prepared in such readiness. Is it a gentleman's code not to waste any food? He's well dressed, mustache neatly trimmed, his blue eyes absorb you in and push you out, and the path of his tongue to upper lip follows a well-planned routine. But you wanna see him not such handy: you wanna see him sweaty in bed, messy in his suit, bursting impatient hiss from throat. 

He squeezes into you, not as smoothly as you might think, you crumple up his suit cuff in pain, and the boy downstairs selling the World Economic News yanks you back to consciousness with his high pitched cries. He suddenly realized that you were in pain, and you saw through him, in that instant, in the slight quiver of his comically curled eyebrows. He was proving, PROVING that he had gone from being a boy to an unimpeachable experienced man; that tiny quiver breaks all his disguises, layer upon layer of gold mask peeling, he is still the little boy with powerful kick, spitting wet cigarette butts in your face. Your brow bone remembers the searing pain. His disguise tears a trivial crack, and you discovered it with ecstasy. Just in time, he discovers yours; your bodies fuse together like N and S polars of magnet, like beer bubble that just sits on the rim of glass. How ridiculous, you carefully groan, given up your autonomy to him. 

The golden-black sea block your sight, the occasional flash of sunlight left a little spot of blue in the deepest of wind and waves. His presence is too strong, like the thunderstorm in the swing of a boat, a boat which you howsoever cannot reach. He was so rude, so unkind, but damn it, what a relief to you when he is unkind! ...You wanna ask him, Mr. Sanji, that why you're doing this to me. You wanna tell him, Mr. Sanji, that I will never forget you. ...Mr. Sanji, Mr. Sanji, cocktail mingled with passion and estrangement. It just makes you blush when you call his name; you are such a boring dish. At the end he hits deep in your body and strikes a match just right, leaving you blank, blossoming inside out into a firework. You fell the dull pain from overhead. He gets out of you and releases on your dark abdomen, as if overlooking on a river valley.

The quiet, dense tickling inside you is like the warmth of a charcoal fire. He leans down, and you think it's a hug or even a kiss. But he reaches for the drawer on the nightstand, his sunglasses dangling at his collar as if to mock your misunderstanding. If the quality of the tissue had been better, if it had been a silk handkerchief scented with Gardenias, you would have thought that the next moment he would clean his face with grace just like some well-to-do nobleman, instead of cleaning up the evidence of his crime and tolerating your embarrassment.

He lies down on the mattress with his back to you, the silent panther gives up the attack. You watch his back rise and fall, the graceful snub is worth forgiving. You know there's a void inside of you that will never be filled, and then you realize how ridiculous it all is, and for a few seconds you don't know where you are. The ends of Mr. Sanji's long untrimmed hair hung down softly, like little fish with hard scales nibbling at your heart. You look up at the gray ceiling of a small hotel near the shore, where the sea breeze blows and the wooden window frames bounce off the white painted wall. Then you wake up and sneeze loudly into the ceiling.


End file.
